"stilton" poems
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
I built me a yellowish
statue of you
out of last nights curry
and the cheese fondue.
Your *** was madras
your **** vindaloo
and stilton is what
yer built on.
WHOOP DE FUKIN DOO !!!!!,
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."
Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.
"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds
of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
I
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
II
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
"O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
"O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry ****
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, "If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,?
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
1.8k
Drinking Guinness from a wine glass
I watch the beetle on his back
rocking to and fro, frantically jerking his legs.
I imagine his voice, squeaky,
a balloon poodle stretched at the end
and spiked with a shot of helium
“help me, help me! Please I have grubs I should feed”.
I throw out a laugh like a Hammer House villain,
staggering from the sofa I am Nosferatu,
teeth bared in ominous intention,
spilling sticky black froth as I ******* my glass.
Wouldn’t it be good to stick a pin through his middle?
Keep him in a glass box? Whip him out at dinner parties
as a curio example of helplessness,
“yes! Look how he wriggles. Do try the stilton”.
Suddenly I’m aware that I wasn’t laughing.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
Tammy,Tammy,call your mammy
daddy's run away.
Buildings built of stilton cheese and Wilton rugs,bugs that run round in my head,silver diamond ten gauge thread to tie my eyes up.
Tea leaves tell no lies,
I've seen them in a broken cup where broken people all look up to watch me fall.
I call the Master of Ceremonies,also made of Stilton cheese,eaten slowly by the mice,made from chocolate covered rice cake crisps and baked in ovens,gas mark seven and ask him,
where did daddy go?
he doesn't know and never did and slowly drops off from the grid,
in hidden thoughts behind veiled red eyes where riots run with teddy boys,who ride Italian imported scooter bikes,
twenty thousand Facebook likes for what,
a **** *** underneath the bed?
more bugs that run wild in my head,
another silver,sugar coated thread to wrap me in when I am dead,
but I'm not there yet
I've got to shift the fuzziness,the interfering laziness,be blessed twice by his Holiness,undress the dressings I am wrapped in,bleach my skin and reach inside to clear my mind.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
Rolling along with his hair tied back,
Looking left, looking right,
It is close, very close,
His nose confirms he has found the culprit,
The foul waft of a gone off ball of stilton,
Only the cheese man knows a gone off stink,
In amongst the putrid smell of ripening stilton.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
WORMS
Hello! Chester here… Missing you so,
A bookworm am I,
Oh, yesss, today just sliding by…
With spectacles on my nose,
I do both poetry and prose.
Want to hear more about me …
And my family…?
So awfully lovely to see you again,
Perhaps a few secrets for you, my friend?
Plump cousins I have in the strangest places,
On blue Stilton cheese are not only their faces…
There’s even a cousin with a thousand little feet…
The shoemaker thinks he’s a treat.
Mostly here somewhere, we always share…
And war seen so many times before,
Just like greedy maggots, ended battles we do adore,
And there is even more…
Not a treat, some worms you never want to meet,
A part of the family is really mean,
Trust me, they're the worst worms you’ve ever seen,
For those eat dead people really clean!
Others just eat wood and all they ever could.
And don’t let me start,
With Mr. Snooks… worming into Miss Prissy’s heart!
Once there was even a tapeworm from a whale,
100 feet long, both sexes… He and She were for sale!
Just like people… large, short, skinny or hairy,
Some worms fancy meat or plants… others dairy.
Seeing ample aggravation… there was an invitation…
And all I have to say today… Now on my way…
To the cemetery without delay,
But I’ll be back, Sweetheart… Someday...
Copyright©2013 Kari M. Knutsen
.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
I really want to dream tonight,
well dream of you to be precise,
what's good for dreaming?
What lets the sandman in with ease?
lots and lots of lovely cheese!
I gorged on Stilton, Feta, Cheddar and Brie
Wensleydale topped with Cheshire for my tea,
and i dreamt that night,
i dreamt of you,
and it was wonderful,
so i repeated, cheese consumption again for days.
I'm that fat now i can't get out of bed
but beds the place you dance every night in my head,
more cheese please!
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
I cant help it I play with it
all of the time, Its starting to
smell funny, but I just have
not got the time.
I get funny looks when I walk
about, people saying I smell
like a CHEESE BOARD what the
hell they on about.
I cant help it, I have an idle hand
down the trousers it goes and
away plays my hand.
I woke up one morning and some
thing I could smell, my hand
still down there I sniffed my fingers
HOLY CRAP what is that awful smell.
I asked my dog to sniff, he hide in the
corner whimpering , it cant be that bad
so I had another smell. Like mouldy
cheese with sweaty ***** was this
god awful smell.
It was worse than stilton, at least
you can eat that well, this would bring
a girl to tears and no girl would
touch my stick. It would fall off
from lack of use so wash it
and wash it well.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
A fallout at dinner
Saw no outright winner
On the quest for a marvellous trip
The owl said that Venice
Could stave off the menace
Of wind from the nibbles and dip.
The cat had remained silent but drained.
At the threat of Italian air.
The fact that some spies had
The cause to surmise that
The dish ran away with the hare.
Sudan it was planned from the man
In the sand who gave discount
To dismount their boat.
The sandstorms provided,
The couple decided –
An irritant bad for the throat.
At pudding of comfit
And port and some Stilton
Conclusions were made on the fact
That they built in
Some cupboards for luggage
And two pairs of boots
And a lifetime’s supply of dye
For their roots.
They hopped off and popped off
And sailed to Capri.
To try out a brand of Italian Brie.
So sometimes discussions
Can end in excursions
To try out new islands with cheese.
The owl and the pussycat
Just should be sure that
They sail with a minimal breeze.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:49 AM UTC
" got any gingers ger" you'd say
In you're crude Bristolian way
"City did alright today!"
Draught bass, skittles
Stilton, and port wine..
Were just a few...
Of you're favourite pastimes
You're woolly hat
And yer funky bike
Oh my god
" what are you like"!!
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE
early summer falls across
the lawn...the trees
the bars of a cage
sunlight and shadow
our jailers
our own good selves
and we
the prisoners
of this summer's day
"Shall I compare thee to.."
I laugh to myself
no...I guess not
we forever imprisoned
in sunlight and shadow
an image made real
memory holds us here
trapped in this conceit
sentenced to be who we could never be
and so we sat until
sunlight relinquished
its hold over the world
and so we sat until
darkness swallowed us whole
only our voices visible
only our vices invisible
as always
each the murderer of the other
now no longer
man & wife
I glimpse my face in a fish knife
the decree nisi
still tucked behind
the ormolu clock
the divorce
still eats at my soul
this piece of paper mocking me
and now
the decree absolute
we sit down to our last supper
the cat devours
( I don't tell you that )
the fresh trout
the fresh trout
all dressed up in its dish
like a sacrifice
I shoo the cat away
it snarls at me
"Ticktock!" laughs the clock ormoluly
the cat looks at me
with disdain...scorn
licks lovingly its *****
I cut the cat-chewed bit away
serve up with a too rich sauce
the unseen incident not noticeable
and so after all
I still serve you
before me
you smile your smile
say we should have
"...maybe stayed together after all..?"
too late now I think
to recall
the people we used to be
we different people now
"Time doesn't heal..!" I think
"...Time's a heel!" I secretly smile
I pass the port
a crumb of Stilton still stuck
charmingly upon her chin
"The sunlight on the garden
hardens and grows cold."
I quote MacNeice to the parrot
"We can not catch its minutes..."
the parrot continues and I finish
"...within its nets of gold."
memory still holds me
prisoner in that garden
I watch her taxi pull away
the taxi turns the corner
blinks a right turn
and is gone
back in the kitchen
I let the cat finish
my untouched trout
I flambé the decrees
both nisi and absolute
watch us go up in smoke
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC